Of Symbolism and Smoke Detectors
by Ms.TamborineMan
Summary: Near the end of their senior years in high school, Cyrus and Cynthia are both failing a subject. A tutoring session ensues in the library. Takes place nine years before the events of Platinum. One-shot. Rated T for safety.


**Symbolism and Smoke Detectors**

"Come on, Cyrus," Cynthia was saying, "It's simple. Really."

"Simple," he said, sounding irritated. "Of course its simple! You are the one adding ulterior motive to the character's actions!"

"Yeah, me and every other literature teacher in Sinnoh. Isn't that what you're having trouble with?"

"I don't understand it," he continued, "At all. What is the meaning of analyzing literature anyway?"

"You _need_ to understand it," she pleaded. "Just think about it."

They were sitting in the library of the school in Sunyshore City. Cynthia hailed from Celestic Town, but they were too small-they had no school of their own. Sunyshore City was the closest place she could get a quality education. She flew here every morning on her grandmother's Togekiss; Cyrus, the disgruntled man across from her, walked.

Classes had just let out. The place was empty and the lights were off. Thankfully, the sun persisted through the window, casting light on and warming the hard oak table at which they were sitting.

"I understand perfectly," he said. "The main character left home. What does that have to do with bravery or a desire to protect his brother? How can you attach emotion to a scene that doesn't specifically have it written in? Leaving home could have been done entirely for himself, and could have been the most selfish thing that character had ever done. This is useless. The entire pursuit."

"It's obvious! It's the reason why he left!" Cynthia sighed, running a hand through her platinum hair, which fell softly around her shoulders, "Can't you see?"

"No," he said hotly, closing the book. "This is preposterous. When will I ever analyze books outside of school?"

"Cyrus, I don't know." Moodily, she rested her chin in her hand. Her manicured fingers flicked out. "But if you don't want to fail language..."

Cyrus averted his eyes for a moment, in thought, his mind, perhaps, shooting to the reason why he'd gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath earlier when she'd touched his back. Sunlight peeked through a library window, coloring his blue hair a hue lighter.

His eyes flitted back to her, all anger sucked out of them, replaced by a certain flatness. "Okay," he said, "Symbols and motifs."

Something about the seriousness that had fallen over him unsettled something deep in her stomach. It was a remarkable sadness, a snipet of desperation, clothed in cool realism. It reminded her slightly of her own situation, suddenly threatening to reduce her to tears.

A 65 in Language Arts would buy him some leniency, perhaps convince his father that he should be able to sleep without pain shooting through his body for one night. Cyrus had never explicitly stated any of this, and would never do so, but Cynthia knew it to be true.

A 65 in Math meant...well, nothing as much as the security that she knew Cyrus needed, but it _would_ give her a great relief. This was her last semester in high school. She had to pass. She just had to.

And so did he.

She heaved a breath and ripped her gaze away, avoiding his icy blue eyes. _Don't cry_, she told herself._ Don't you dare cry_.

"Ok," she sniffed, sliding up and dropping her hand, "Well obviously, you've got the light bulb."

"The-" he stared at her blankly, "Light bulb?"

"The one that goes out, or breaks, or whatever? It's a symbol. What do you think it's for?"

It was obvious from his expression that Cyrus had no clue. "A need to buy better light bulbs."

She sighed, exasperated. "He can't. Duh. Otherwise, it wouldn't be a symbol."

"Fine. Whatever. What does the light bulb signify?"

"Think about it," she said for the second time that day, "It always breaks when something bad happens to him."

He shook his head, slowly. "I don't see what-"

"It's a symbol for his _life_, Cyrus! He's always having to fix it! God, how dense can you be?!"

He didn't reply for a while, and a flutter of shock flew through her. _Shit_, had she just said _that?!_

"Cyrus," she sputtered, "I didn't-"

"I am just trying to pass," he deadpanned. "Have no illusions, this emotional analysis is useless to me. I do not care about how dense I am or about this book. Perhaps, though, it is inevitable that I will fail." He got up to leave. "I will waste no more of your time."

He walked off. Cynthia desperately flew to her feet.

"Wait!" she cried, having to jog to catch up, "Don't go!"

She grabbed his shoulder. He took in a sharp spike of breath, pain flying suddenly and unabashedly across his features. It worked, though-she had stopped him in his tracks.

"Oh my god," she gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. "I'm so sor-"

He turned around, speaking through tense and strained vocal cords. "What do you _want_, Cynthia?"

_Don't cry don't cry don't cry_. "I-" she said, "I-"

Something broke then, and tears burst into her eyes, and Cynthia covered her face, blubbering and sniffing like an infant. Cyrus stared on with angry, narrowed eyes that gradually, very gradually, became wider.

"Cynthia," he said calmly, "Why are you crying?"

"Just-you and-your dad and-passing...the light bulb-I'm going to fail-my math class and I-Ohh!" She dissolved into a puddle of tears and sorrow. This poor man! This poor, poor man!

"Let me see your math work," he said.

Having gained control of herself a bit, Cynthia, sniffling, led him back over to their original table. She unzipped her backpack while wiping her eyes on her sleeve, taking out a sheet of paper and wordlessly handing it over. Complex math equations marched coldly across the page. It may as well have been Greek.

Silently, he took out a pencil and began working. In two minutes, he had completed five problems, problems that took her ten minutes at least to accomplish the same feat.

"It's simple," he murmured. "Look."

She sniffed, eyes mostly dry but burning, and scooted her chair over to him. He flipped the page over and mechanically, he instructed her on how to solve a problem. He did this over and over, patiently, until he should do one on her own. The numbers and variables began to unravel, to all make sense somehow. She paid great attention to how her hands shook, her writing coming out wavering and wrong. What she didn't notice was how his did, too, and did so to a much greater degree. Equation lines became sloppy waves, and his addition signs looked more like odd little curved crosses. His pencil slipped from his hand multiple times, rolling across the table in a dramatic fashion. Later she noticed, but now she didn't.

Finally they reached the end of the worksheet, and the pressure in her stomach had dissipated a little. A certain joy flashed through her when she finished the last problem and Cyrus deemed it correct. She would not fail. She could not fail, having this knowledge!

After it was over, he grumbled a sigh and stood.

"I'm leaving," he said.

"Wait," Cynthia said, reaching out to him. "There's one more thing."

The sun had left the window. The library was as dim and somber as ever. "What?" he asked. It was as if every bit of life had been sucked out of his eyes, leaving them cold and blank. She bit her lip. She didn't want him to fail. She really didn't.

"Another symbol," she said. "In the book. The smoke detector."

"Spell it out." he spat, an odd smirk flickering on his lips before dying a quick death.

"The character keeps replacing the batteries," she said, "But it always breaks again. Right before he leaves, he just buys and installs a new one."

Her fingers met the outside of his right arm, gently, barely gracing the fabric of his shirt at all. Cyrus finally looked at her. His jaw fixed; he waited.

"It's another symbol," she repeated, softly, "For his situation. Fixing it just wouldn't work. He had to replace the entire thing, and get a brand new one."

He cracked the slightest of smiles, but no emotion registered in his eyes. A deep, grumbling chuckle. "Fine," he said, staring towards the door, "I will remember that."

Having said so, he swept out of the library and out of her life. She didn't see him at Graduation a month later, although she looked. After school was out she began to pay more attention to pokemon, becoming a very powerful trainer, a force to be reckoned with.

Three years passed. She traveled through Johto, Kanto, and Hoenn. Finally, at 21, she became the Champion of the Sinnoh League. She spent the next six years in that position. It was as if Cyrus had vanished-until now.

The wind was whipping and cold, adding a somber hue to an already tense atmosphere. Cynthia's hair floated around her shoulders, never resting. Night had almost fallen on Mt. Coronet.

As she faced him, anger warmed her; she held Garchomp's pokeball tightly. Cynthia had never seen the man grin before, but now he did so brilliantly, a wicked light deep-set in his frigid eyes.

"Cyrus," she growled, "What are you doing?"

"Why Cynthia," he said, motioning to the Red Chain, encircling him, glowing and blinking, "I'm replacing the smoke detector."


End file.
